In my bricks-and-mortar life, a hazelnut branch hangs from the ceiling in my living room, strung with white twinkle lights and some feathered birds clipped to twigs. (Cut it with the sawz-all from the garden on a grey December afternoon with no birds to be seen.)
In that alternate universe of the nighttime dream, I
pulled it down from the ceiling and hauled it outside, and from the
branches shimmered dozens of butterflies, each velvet wingbeat a flicker
of bright color that fluttered up and into the cloud-struck sky, all of
it a wonder and a surprise.